


These Inconvenient Fireworks

by jusrecht



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: F/M, Genderbending, Girl!Hibari
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:18:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2073090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Universe in which Hibari is a woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Matter of Definition

“This spar has no purpose.”  
  
Dino blinks his eyes open, regards Hibari’s scornful expression. He smiles. “It does, but perhaps not one you have in mind. What do you want, Kyouya?”  
  
“To bite you dead.”  
  
For once Dino does not think. Hibari is strong, strange, beautiful, and for all her fierceness his hands feels her softness and his lips her warmth.  
  
“There,” he pulls away, her taste in his mouth. “You’ve stolen my heart and a man without one is dead, no?”  
  
If Hibari still finds fault in this logic, then it is evident in the swiftness of her tonfa.


	2. Simplicity

Simplicity is all Tsuna ever wishes in life. A tall wish, he reflects wryly, for the leader of so powerful a _famiglia_ , and yet he finds himself mournfully longing for the impossible in the face of a potentially embarrassing conversation with a fellow mafia don.  
  
“Dino-san,” he begins nonetheless, gingerly standing between entreaty and reproach, “you have not visited for months.”  
  
“Five months.” Surely he is just imagining the trace of amusement in Dino’s voice. Surely this is not a subject suitable for any degree of mirth. “Is something the matter, Tsuna?”  
  
 _Yes, something **is** the matter because my Cloud Guardian’s tempestuous fury in the wake of your prolonged absence will soon bring an end to **my** entire Family, which is in fact something **you** can easily correct by regular visits–_  
  
But Tsuna swallows this tirade in the name of courtesy and chivalrously answers, “No, nothing important.”  
  
The pause speaks of a concealed smile from the other end of the line. “Perhaps I can arrange a visit in the next few weeks,” Dino suggests, “but I’ll have to speak with Romario first to make sure.”  
  
“Please try,” Tsuna manages to respond briefly, the bulk of his despair still firmly locked within.  
  
When later that day Gokudera reports the obliteration of one of their warehouses, courtesy of inflating hedgehogs, Tsuna calls Dino’s right-hand man himself and mentions the state of relationship between their Families and the possibility of deterioration stemming from very trivial social neglect.  
  
At least _that_ makes it simpler.


	3. Even Walls Start to Bend

This is rare indeed, Dino thinks, smiles at the woman curled up to his side. Kyouya is never one to wear intimacy in place of immaculate black suits, but five months of absence has a fair chance to make a difference.   
  
Perhaps it has. She didn’t challenge him into a fight when he arrived, but her tonfa missed his face despite the unanticipated start, her sweep stiff, graceless. Her knuckles were white from too-tight grips, and Dino repented.  
  
In the pale silvery glow, she looks the proud sister of Apollo, aloof, untouchable but for his fingers and smiles. Dino thinks himself lucky, but a don needs a wife and his Family an heir. Kyouya has refused his proposals too many times and he is now past thirty—the stakes are too great. It is either this, or to move on.  
  
But Dino believes in love. Kyouya will not let him go, never. It wasn’t lust that so stifled her grace, but anger born of different master. The next time he asks, the twenty-sixth proposal, she will accept. He will make her.  
  
Tomorrow then, Dino promises, a kiss to the top of her head. No other woman will bear his child.


	4. Between Scars

Morning dispels not only dreams, but also illusions spun of white sheets and moon’s precious glow. In the stumbling daylight, his eyes easily find her angles and curves, pale flesh so strewn with scars. His tongue traces one jagged end to another slanting arc, burn marks and cold imprints of a blade’s sharp edge. Proud as he is for her strength, they ignite the same fire in his guts as he reads, slowly, all fights chronicled across stitched-over membranes.   
  
That she stirs and seeks the length of his back isn’t the intended effect but welcomed nonetheless. He bends to accommodate her touch and kisses the dark tip of her left nipple.  
  
“Kyouya,” he calls, swallows the salty taste of her skin. She growls, a snarled permission at the feel of his mouth—and now fingers—but scarce lessens her vicious grasp in his hair. Dino winces, hides the twist of his lips with a kiss to her belly; then again, he never does wish for a princess.   
  
Admittedly, a princess will be much easier to court and entice. A princess requires no underhand scheme, but Kyouya, he reflects sadly, Kyouya has always been special. While others blush for pretty trinkets, she thrives before raw challenges. And for this he tilts his head, crooks one finger inside her, and asks, “Will you marry me, Kyouya?”   
  
She bites the inside of her cheek, but otherwise only her eyes narrow into a baleful glare, nails still a threat on the juncture of his neck. He does not move— _cannot_ this time around, surely she understands—and holds her gaze instead.  
  
“Bastard.”  
  
“I love you,” he says solemnly, the intruding finger removed, and presses his cheek to the inside of her thigh. “And I will make you happy. Please, will you do me the honour of being my wife, to be the one I love and cherish forever?”  
  
“Lies,” she hisses, almost softly if not for the rancour underneath, nails drawing blood from his neck. Dino realises his mistake and smiles.  
  
“Forgive me,” he gently kisses her thigh. “For as long as I live, and this is not a promise I make lightly.”  
  
She cares—she must. Dino has spent the better part of his adult life trying to convince himself that Kyouya _cares_ , can do so despite a heart carved out of stone. Now he waits for judgment, all hopes bared, gambled.   
  
“Get down on your knees,” she finally speaks, these words spat as if poison, “and beg. _Properly_.”  
  
He blinks, surprised. “Really?”  
  
“I may change my mind,” she threatens, tugs hard at his hair. Dino grins in response, a victor’s crest, and gently applies a grateful mouth.   
  
“I love you.”  
  
“Shut up.”


	5. For Better or Worse

When Dino comes to him after breakfast and solicits a private meeting with only he and Hibari present, Tsuna hardly needs the illustrious Vongola intuition to sound a warning bell.  
  
Entering his office has never felt quite as daunting as it does now. Dino is generous with charming smiles and hearty laughs, but Hibari is ruthlessly glowering at everything that moves and Tsuna, trapped between two vastly different sentiments, opts for safety in the ambiguity of silence and proceeds to wait.  
  
“Tsuna,” Dino begins after a perfunctory comment on the beauty of the day, falling into solemnity such that befits his true title, “I mean, _Vongola Decimo_. I must ask you to forgive my boldness in advance, should this proposition offends you in any manner—as it is very likely to. I realise that to take one of your Guardians away may cause certain difficulties for the Vongola Family, and therefore I must ask now if I may be fortunate enough to actually have your permission.”  
  
 _But you already took one,_ Tsuna nearly answers if not for the murderous glare Hibari now sees fit to dispatch to his general direction.   
  
“I already said that I am my own person and where I go is my own business.”  
  
Dino smiles at her in a placating fashion. “Yes, Kyouya, but still. It’s only proper to ask Tsuna first since you belong–”  
  
“I do _not_ belong to anyone.”  
  
“Certainly, my dear. Likewise, in the future it will never cross anybody’s mind to address you as _Signora_ Cavallone.”  
  
Unmistakably certain hell is imminent when Tsuna finally finds some pluck to intervene. “You mean,” he says tentatively, “you intend to marry Hibari-san?”  
  
Both stare at him, one grinning and the other obviously fighting an urge to demolish something, and he stares back, still mired in doubts. Surely no one has predilection for masochism in so great an extent—but clearly, once again he is to be proven wrong. Tsuna has to struggle for calmness when Dino reaches for Hibari’s left hand and kisses the back.  
  
“Just this morning, Kyouya has agreed to marry me.”  
  
“Oh,” is his automatic response, quickly followed by a less imprudent, “Congratulations.”  
  
“Then may I assume that I have your permission?”  
  
“Of course—not that I claim any form of ownership over Hibari-san,” Tsuna hastily adds, “but as far as Vongola is concerned, I cannot say there is any objection. Also the matter of guardianship naturally holds a second place to that of our affiliation.”   
  
And that it will no doubt benefit everyone’s peace of mind is of even greater importance, but he refrains from using those exact words in fear of provoking his irritable Cloud—whose temper tantrum has proven matchless in term of destructive power.   
  
Well, not _his_ anymore. Between relief and melancholy, Tsuna nevertheless finds a smile when he wishes them happiness.

-  
  
“And,” he whispers in a low voice as soon as Hibari leaves the room, “perhaps I should also wish you luck?”  
  
Dino laughs—and if there is a tinge of hysteria in it, Tsuna is always inclined to pretend ignorance. “I know, but there is no one I love more than her in this world. Besides, it could have been worse.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Kyouya could have been a man.”  
  
Both laugh and agree that it would certainly be disastrous.


	6. Lacrimosa

“Traitor.”  
  
Hibari’s smirk is an infernal thing. Gokudera wants to rip it off, strip it bloodless and paint the dark hall with these mute mockeries, thick enough to drown the sounds of celebration—but he cannot, will not. Hibari is not as charitable as to let him win, not once. She approaches, graceful with intent to destroy, and her footsteps are deliberate. Gokudera inhales a lungful of smoke, waits, does not pretend ignorance when any mask is too thin to matter.  
  
“Afraid your precious Family will crumble after I leave?” Her voice is deep, an instrument of no other purpose but to cut. More than anything, Gokudera thinks, he hates her wiles.  
  
“You have responsibilities as a Guardian,” he snarls, acrimony wrapped around his voice like thorns, “but in the end I guess you’re just a woman. Ruled by a weak heart. To throw away everything for a man–”  
  
She has always been fast, brutally so. When her tonfa smothers his throat, he has not even blinked. “I’ve never belonged to Vongola,” she says, her lips close enough to tempt the tender skin under his jaw. “If you don’t want to provoke an allied Family, tread carefully, _Consigliere_.”  
  
He chokes a scathing laugh. “As if your husband has enough guts to do it.”  
  
“Then make sure never to offend _me_.” Her words are near a whisper but still no less than a command. His cigarette slips to the marble floor when she presses a knee between his legs. He gasps—her dark, taunting laugh will haunt him for weeks.  
  
“Traitor,” Gokudera repeats for the sake of it, his fingers grasping the roots of her hair. He _feels_ her smirk, a malicious curve that mocks his weakness. Her dark hair whispers along his jaw and he hisses softly when a sharp bite follows.   
  
“Herbivore.”  
  
He curls his fingers into fist in an effort not to reach out when she sweeps away, back to the ballroom and her fiancé’s smiles. Gokudera only has himself to laugh at when he finds the Cloud Vongola Ring in his left hand.  
  
 _Traitor,_ he thinks.


	7. Unfolding Page By Page

Dino pulls, hands straining against silk which has his wrists bound. A keening sound uncoils in his throat at the feel of Kyouya’s nails scraping across his chest, the rising arch of his ribs, the valley of his stomach. Her other hand moves slowly between his thighs, but she does not tease, never, has no need for such art if by the sharpness of mocking she can achieve the same end, and more.   
  
He wonders if his departure tomorrow is the cause of this, but her touches make his head swim. Robbed of sight and speech both, the scent from her tie, coiled firm around his mouth, unravels his clear-cut, centred focus. She seeks not to pleasure, but to control—and is doing such a fine job on it. Dino thinks he needs no further proof when she gives him a sharp nip on the hipbone, and altogether removes her hand; his reactions stifled, he resorts to whines and frantic pleas, wanting _more oh so much more_.  
  
Kyouya is silent when she lowers herself onto him. Likewise, he makes every effort to stay still; focuses instead on the sharpness of her nails, the warmth of her thighs splayed across his hips. He imagines her thick lashes, the pale skin of her belly beaded with sweat, and her lips red from fierce bites to belie her pleasure. His backs arches when her hands return, fingers dancing across black fire and brightly coloured tattoos.   
  
Even bound and gagged, he is more vocal. Dino thinks he hears her laugh, that sharp, proud echo amidst her soft gasps. But she rocks harder, deeper, and it is the sudden tightening of her flesh which finally snaps his limit and makes him come.  
  
Her weight slumps atop him; he feels the softness of her breasts against his chest, her thundering heartbeat, her shuddering breath as he struggles with his own body. Her tongue licks the long column of his neck, the curve of his jaw and he moans again, still buried deep inside her. With the same impatience she has shown her enemies, she rips the silk tie away from his mouth.  
  
“You belong to me,” she breathes to his lips, close to a whisper. Dino smiles unseeing and his answer finds home in her kiss.


	8. Calando

The first to approach him was Sasagawa Ryouhei. After Tsuna had announced the happy news, it was Ryouhei who clapped the loudest, grinned the widest. When he approached for a congratulatory handshake, it was with a grip strong enough to fracture bones of a frailer person—but as luck would have it, Dino happened to be a man sufficiently toughened by a childhood spent on tripping and falling to floors of bricks, marbles, asphalt and gravels; he withstood the agony with little more than a pained smile.  
  
Yamamoto Takeshi sought him out at the engagement party. Amidst best wishes and good-natured laughs, he mentioned the closeness of the Vongola, the loyalty they shared with one another, and how throughout their life an offence against one of theirs had never gone unpunished. Dino considered the message accepted and cheerfully, if warily, toasted Yamamoto’s glass.  
  
The most unscrupulous, the most conniving method was nearly always Rokudo Mukuro’s first choice. His tactic was never the clear sounding of war drums, but two spies’ illicit tryst in the middle of the night. His approach to timing was impeccable, so much that Dino found himself silently watching their fight from the door. Kyouya’s eyes would always burn at the thought of him, her first defeat and humiliation, and this was but a little reminder. Mukuro decorated his triumphant defeat with wicked laughter as his trident danced with her tonfa.  
  
A more peaceful front could be expected from Lambo. Far too staid for his fifteen years, he extended his personal congratulation when Dino chanced upon him on his way to Tsuna’s office. The bazooka, now a constant company slung from his right shoulder, once more meddled with time and it was an older Lambo who told him, how in _his_ world Hibari-san remained firm in her refusal and Don Cavallone had soon after married a woman of his Family’s choosing. When the fifteen-year-old Lambo returned, Dino waved his apology away with a forced laugh.  
  
Tsuna, he thought, had kindly remained silent in this matter, but then again Tsuna hardly needed words to convey his sentiments. Older brother or not, Dino knew very well that he would face the Vongola Decimo’s wrath if he ever dared to upset _his_ Cloud Guardian in any manner. That Vongola had yet to choose another guardian was not for lack of worthy candidates.  
  
On the day of his departure, he found Gokudera Hayato waiting for him at the airport, stiff-backed and frowning under white curls of smoke. By now, Dino had been expecting it and so said first, “I’ll make her happy.”   
  
Gokudera’s scowl deepened. “The Tenth sends a message,” he said, almost brusquely. “ _Have a safe journey._ ”  
  
Dino heard Romario’s soft snort and smiled—he was not the only one who suspected Tsuna’s true intention. “Please thank Tsuna for me,” he answered politely.  
  
“And you see to that promise, Bucking Horse.”  
  
When he opened his mouth to answer, the Storm Guardian had walked past him and disappeared amidst the crowd.

-  
  
“Do you know what I must endure in order to marry you?”  
  
For a long moment, there was only silence from the other side of the line. And then, “Do you know what _I_ must endure once I marry _you_?”  
  
Dino laughed then—her clipped response actually made him feel better. “But it’s all worth it, isn’t it, Kyouya?”  
  
“Don’t call me again until you arrive.”  
  
Dino complied; as soon as he had landed in Rome, he called.


	9. From Falling, From Stifling

She is always the dangerous arm of shadows, dark, beautiful, fluid, her only presence in the sharp clicking of her heels and the shadow of two men at her side. The short dress and long coat, black on pale skin, sharpen her profile in layers of contrast. Dino raises an eyebrow in surprise, facile pleasantries still lingering about his mouth.   
  
“Kyouya.”  
  
The corridor, grey-walled and dimly lit, leads to the basement parking area. Their exit route is known only to few, but as his men part to make way for the boss’s wife, Dino’s lips curve into a smile, its validity only challenged by the ambiguous outcome of the meeting earlier. He briefly wonders how Kyouya has found him, with all the steps and precautions taken to keep it a secret given the delicate nature of the subject. She has gone for nearly two weeks, pursuing her own ends separate from his Family; the sight of her now, long-legged, her beauty sharpened by his own longing, is bliss.   
  
That is not to say he expects her to return his greeting in any remotely affectionate manner. He swallows his surprise when Kyouya crushes their lips together, stilettos effectively narrowing the gap between their heights. Her hands fist the front of his suit as she pushes him flat to the wall, never gentle. If any of their men is shocked by such proceeding, Dino barely notices—the heat of her lips is making his head spin.  
  
Until he remembers their place.  
  
“Kyouya, this isn’t–”  
  
She once more kisses the rest of his protest silent and employs a well-placed knee to decimate what little remains of his reluctance. He returns the favour in earnest, one hand travelling along the smooth skin of her thigh, the other pushing down her coat to reveal bare shoulders. His mind vaguely registers Romario’s voice, calm, unchanging, sending hurried footsteps to secure the perimeter, more so than to give them some semblance of privacy.   
  
“You were saying?”  
  
He laughs at the taunt, momentarily closing his eyes as her whispered words ghost over the sensitive skin under his jaw. As she works on his belt, his own hand slips beneath the hem of her dress, steadily going upward until it reaches her buttocks, and then squeezes, making her arch toward him. She doesn’t make a sound, not until he reaches between her legs and touches her through thin layer of silk.  
  
Kyouya hisses sharply, fingers clawing at his hips as her thighs clench in response. The intensity of her reaction alarms him for a moment—not to mention in so public a place—but she viciously nips at his jaw when he stops, her breath stuttering. Carefully, Dino lets one digit slip under the fabric, and almost as soon feels the moisture on his fingertip, enough to slick the entire length of his finger, and more.  
  
He smiles against her cheek, uncontrollable. “I must admit I didn’t expect this.”  
  
“I’ll bite you to death if you keep talking.”  
  
The fierceness of her voice widens his smile, which soon dissolves into a gasp as she touches him in return; her intent is clear, and it doesn’t take him long to catch up and make his decision. In one fluid motion he flips them around, now her against the wall, his knee parting her legs.   
  
Her smirk is dark, promises shadowed by legions of other threats, eyes hooded. Dino groans and kisses her again, their heated breaths clashing against each other’s as her panties are discarded atop her coat. His hands remember their procedure and Kyouya is more than cooperative when they lift her buttocks. Rare as it is for such occasion to arise, he works by both instinct and fading memory, holding her weight against the wall, the tip of her stilettos digging into his back.  
  
Everything about Kyouya is sharp, he reflects, faint through the heavy fog clouding his mind. She arches, hips lifting at his first slow breach—she doesn’t want _slow_ , or gentle, and her body tells him so. Kyouya is all impatience, her voice wrapping around a growl, her hips rocking against his, fingers scraping his scalp, pulling ruthlessly at his hair. Dino stifles a moan when her muscles ripples along his length, the most he will ever get from his wife by way of request to _fuck me please._  
  
A few short thrusts are all it takes for her to climax. Her body trembles violently as she clenches around him, eyes snapped shut and neck bared. He almost doesn’t remember the last time Kyouya allowed herself to be this vulnerable—so long time ago, after she very nearly bit him to death out of irrational jealousy. To Dino’s credit, the rumour of his so-called infidelity was thoroughly unfounded, although he would admit meeting the celebrated soprano a few times.  
  
Kyouya looks at him, her molten-dark eyes a stunning contrast with the red bloom on her lips. Her legs draw him even deeper, now slicker, easier, without allowing her body a moment’s rest despite the hiss repeatedly uncurling in her throat.   
  
Dino makes a sound that is part desire and part frustration; whenever possible, he intends to go slow, but this notion is obviously impractical at the moment. Her tight heat proves too much and he surrenders easily, eager to taste the salty tang of her blood, different from the taste of sweat. Kyouya moans into his mouth as he drives into her, once more falling into their familiar pattern, a simple dance of in and out, tongues clashing and heartbeats quickening.  
  
She is more vocal this second time around, her control slackened by pleasure instead of desperation. Through the veil of his lashes, he watches emotions shift on her face, the tense working of her throat which is much too unused to these sounds—but is soon forced to abandon scrutiny. He is unravelling, his rhythm collapsing to short, rapid thrusts, and he kisses the pale column of her throat, buries his nose in her scent, with her nails on his shoulder blade, on the back of his neck. Around his hips, her thighs are quivering, tightening, and he comes.  
  
What Dino remembers the most is her voice, curving like that, wordless, aching—and then her panting gasps, raspy, her mouth hot before his ear. A few blissful blank seconds tiptoe past until he feels his legs trembling, their combined weight now mostly supported by the wall. Her limbs are still a vice around his body and he breathes deeply.   
  
“It must have been some mission,” he murmurs, rough-voiced, amused.  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
Her venom is lost under half-parted lids, the layered thickness of her voice. He smiles and presses his lips against hers, gentler.


	10. To the Depth and Breadth and Height

The sunset’s burn had dimmed, leaving only traces of red-gold streaks on indigo clouds. Dino marched the length of the swimming pool in long, quick strides, haste and fury one and the same in stiffly coiled muscles. But once he had caught the sight of her, reclining on a long settee, eyes closed against the waning light, the blinding force of his anger disappeared, usurped by such overwhelming relief that he could almost weep.  
  
“You’re late.”  
  
Kyouya’s voice carried always a trace of indifference that twisted a knife into his guts. Numb now after the surge of relief had passed, Dino could not even manage a flinch, a word, a sheepish laugh—anything. He fell down to both knees and stared at her, dumb, hollow, without anger or purpose.  
  
“You thought I could not carry out a simple mission.” Her dry amusement was evident, almost bitter in the lash of her tongue. Dino watched for a shift of expression on her face, her cruelly beautiful face, but there was none.  
  
“I did not think.” He found his voice at last. “When I heard about it, I could not think at all.”   
  
(When Don Farnese turned a pair of crazed, accusing eyes at him, the phone slipping from his fingers’ clutch. _“My son,”_ he whispered, hoarse, broken, not a trace of the suave man he had performed a vicious verbal spar with for the last hour. _“You treacherous son of a whore, your wife murdered my son.”_ And the inferno that soon followed. The bullet that narrowly avoided his neck. The impotent rage that never left a grieving father’s face even after Dino had ripped the body into pieces with the blind torrent of his Sky flames.)  
  
“His son was waiting in ambush.” Kyouya’s clinical voice tore into the ghastly parade of memories. “It was rather a smart plan. Once you had concluded your business with the father, no suspicion could befall them if you were to be found dead afterwards.”  
  
Dino closed his eyes, discovering logic beyond his reach. “You shouldn’t have done it.”  
  
“And let you fall into their trap?”  
  
“I could take care of it,” his self-defence burst forth at that accusation, like a sudden gale. “In your present condition–“  
  
“You see me as weak now,” she practically spat the words. Dino would have flinched, but the numbness had not subsided. He stared at her instead, unblinking.  
  
“No.” His voice came out a soft, defeated whisper. “Never. But my fear is irrational—you, Kyouya, are carrying my child.”  
  
Her smiles, when they deigned to appear, were never the children of joy. This one mocked him, mocked his love and sincerity and everything else that defined their marriage. So did her voice when she said, “Of course, it’s the child you’re worried about.”  
  
“Don’t,” he breathed out sharply, a word full of pain. “Please don’t jest about this, Kyouya.”  
  
Pleas would only irritate her; he knew how much she hated weakness. When she moved, he expected the cold density of her tonfa against his cheek, but her hand was naked, unarmed when it gripped the back of his neck. Then she kissed him, her lips vicious and wet and soaked with jealousy—and he knew that she knew. She could smell the blood on him as easily as he could feel the presence of her hand, the ruthless fingers which had repeatedly torn lives from mortal coils, now allowing strands of his hair slipping between their gaps.  
  
“Is he dead?”   
  
Her words caressed him like sweet poison, and her eyes, this close, were a sharp, clear grey. Before them, Dino could not find the strength in him to nod.   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“His underlings?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Are you angry?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
Her hand released him, as abruptly as it had come. He remained where he was, following her movement with his eyes as she leaned back into the settee’s soft embrace. She was heavy now, seven months into, and Dino tried not to imagine how she had killed Don Farnese’s son. He knew that pregnancy did not rob her of her battle grace—nothing could, it was ingrained in her the way hunting impulse was in wild beasts—but lesser things had caused miscarriage.   
  
He knew that there was nothing _lesser_ about her.   
  
Slowly, as if in a trance, Dino touched the swell of her belly, his fingers following the curved shape from crest to bottom. He was barely conscious of her eyes, that translucent grey, watching him from beneath lowered lids. Here was the making of life, the magic of their world. What he had done before, barely an hour ago, to forty-seven breathing, living creatures of the same magic, had been the unmaking.   
  
Dino felt his hand tremble. The cold whisper of death had not touched him for a long time.   
  
“If anything happens to you,” his throat worked slowly, each word a heavy, conscious effort, “by God, I don’t know what I’ll do.”  
  
Kyouya did not respond for a long time. The silence was thick in his ears when he finally looked up, at her face, expecting disgust, weariness, annoyance, indifference. It struck him all of a sudden, how used he was of thinking in the negative length when it came to her.   
  
“There is no need to be so dramatic.” Her answer was dry, flat, devoid of any of those things. Some of his fear lifted and he could laugh then, a thin sound that scraped his throat like a sob—but he _laughed_ ; it was a curiously liberating action.   
  
“So a simple _‘I love you’_ will suffice?” Dino asked softly.  
  
“No.” Her voice hardened, and so did her eyes. “Your coming back to me. Alive. I don’t care if you have to drag yourself to hell and back to obey. Only that will suffice.”  
  
And then he remembered, above all thoughts of fear and disgust and coldness, why he was here—why _she_ was here, with his ring around her finger. For all her bites and spite, she was here, carrying his child, and not somewhere else beyond his reach: alone, distant, unbound, as Clouds should be.   
  
Kyouya distorted everything, even love—but that love was his to claim and his alone, for not even she could change it. He remembered now, everything hidden behind her indifference and callousness, those jealously guarded secrets he had nearly forgotten.  
  
“I’ll remember that," he promised her, every word a vow, and kissed the back of her hand.   
  
Her knuckles grazed his lips, lightly, and he smiled at her answer—always wordless, always thin, but always there.

 


	11. The Future in an Instant

“...he opened the door and there she was, fast asleep on a curtained bed. She was so beautiful that he could not take his eyes off her. The prince bent over and gave her a kiss, and at that moment she opened her eyes, saw him, and smiled. They went out the old tower together and soon the entire kingdom also awoke and they lived happily ever after.”  
  
“Did they get married, Papa?”  
  
Dino smiles at his daughter, golden eyes wide and bright and completely eluding sleep’s far-reaching arms as far as he can see. “Yes, they got married with the king’s and queen’s blessing and lived a happy, long life together.”  
  
Edoardo, calm and analytical and not yet four, frowns. “Why did they get married?”  
  
“Well, because they love each other so much.”  
  
Apollonina giggles. “Like how you love Mama, Papa?”  
  
“No, _principessa_.” Dino kisses the top of her head. His eyes light up when he chances a glance at the open door, and his smile widens. “It doesn’t even compare. Papa loves your Mama much more than that.”   
  
“Then did you also fight a dragon– Mama!”  
  
Dino watches as his children scramble from the beds toward their mother’s waiting arms. Kyouya’s smiles only lose their mocking edge when she has her children close, their small arms around her neck, their proximity ruining the lines of her suit. Long time ago, the Prefect of Namimori would not have allowed this, but now she has her cheeks pressed to the top of their head, her whispers soft—and all Dino can feel is this swelling ball of pride and happiness in his chest.  
  
She does not confront him until much later, when he has closed the door behind them with promises of tomorrow’s breakfast together and goodnight kisses. “You were comparing me to a fairytale princess.”  
  
He grins. “In fact, no. I was comparing myself to the prince. He had to fight his way through a forest of thorns and then win a battle against a giant dragon, not to mention climb all those stairs to the top of the tower to reach his princess. It was admirable, don’t you–”  
  
That Kyouya presses him to the wall and kisses him deeply is not unexpected, but it’s still a pleasant surprise. “You always talk too much,” she accuses, the insistence of her hands betraying her intent.  
  
Dino laughs and agrees that there are better ways to welcome his wife home.


	12. It was the Best of Times

Apollonina loves the extravagance of rose petals and innate flightiness of colourful bubbles. She inhales the scent and dips her fingers into warm water, splayed wide enough to let some of the colours flow in between. From time to time, she dives in with her nose pinched and eyes tightly closed, testing her own strength or determination or both. When she emerges, red-faced and coughing, she laughs in delight at the crown of petals and bubbles beading her golden hair.  
  
Edoardo is more interested in the simple mechanism of rubber ducks. He has a pair and pulls one underwater by its arcing neck, holds it within, and then quietly lets go. Yellow and orange emerge as if expelled, but the toy easily regains balance and once more floats gently on the surface. His eyes are intent on the spreading of circular waves, soon interrupted by his sister’s bubbles and rose petals. He frowns, too many deviations proving too much for him to analyse, and repeats the experiment all over again.  
  
Kyouya alternates between her daughter and son. She doesn’t fuss, but she will run her fingers through Apollonina’s hair and push Edoardo’s rubber ducks back to his small sanctuary whenever they have drifted too far. Her expression has long since softening into quiet contentment, the red marks on her neck and white shoulders forgotten.  
  
Dino sits amidst them all and feels the happiest in his life.   
  
“We should do this more often.”  
  
Apollonina squeals and throws her arms around his neck. Edoardo murmurs that he prefers _less_ bubbles next time thank you very much but leans into his mother’s embrace.  
  
Kyouya says nothing; her silence speaks enough.


	13. The Wiles of Red

Nina always remembered her mother in shades of grey. Her hair was black, darker than the blanket of night outside her window; it was a peculiar crown atop a face so pale and stern, a stark contrast to the cool gracefulness which seemed to cloak the rest of her. But Nina admired it all the same, like she admired those beautiful, narrowed eyes. They were the deepest grey she had ever seen, so different from the pair which always stared back at her from behind the bathroom mirror every day, dull brown and uninteresting.  
  
And then there were her clothes, always black, always business suits and ties or simple yukatas with matching sashes. She never wore any jewellery or make-up as Nina, all seven and precocious for her age, had noticed other women did. Once, she had dared ask her, but Mama only said that she did not need them. Maybe she was right—she was already so beautiful that way.  
  
It was why the sight of her with lips painted red, this night, stunned Nina. She sat silently on the tatami floor, eyes wide and unblinking as her mother crossed the room to speak with Uncle Tetsu. Her light yukata was golden bronze, not black, and it shimmered beautifully in the lamplight as she moved, as if the patterns were sewn with real gold thread.   
  
Nina held her breath when Uncle Tetsu opened the large box he carried in with him and revealed a folded kimono. She had seen some pictures, elegant ladies wearing these brightly-coloured traditional Japanese clothes, one of them in a painting Papa had in his office which she admired very much. But the real thing was more beautiful still and she gaped at the spill of deep red silk as it cascaded to the floor, exposing delicate twines of green leaves and yellow vines. Uncle Tetsu helped with the big, intricate sash, his fingers moving deftly over black silk patterned with gold. Her mother wore them all with ease, each piece seeming to enhance her grace instead of hinder. When she finally turned around after fastening a simple ornament in her hair, Nina could not help but clap her hands.  
  
“When can I wear something like that, Mama?” she asked in a small, breathless voice. The sheer glamour of the outfit was nothing like she had ever seen before.  
  
“When you are big enough,” her mother said serenely. Nina pursed her lips, but before she could secure a promise, the door slid open.  
  
“Kyouya, you said you wanted to go to the meeting with–”  
  
Papa stopped in his track, mouth agape. Nina giggled quietly as her mother’s lips curved into a small, pleased smile.  
  
“I did. Shall we go now?”  
  
It took Papa a few moments to rouse himself from the shock, and that with a visible effort. Still dazed, he slowly approached and took her hand in his. “Why is it that you dress up when we’re about to meet with a potentially dangerous enemy Family but not on my birthday?”  
  
Mama was positively smirking now. “I get nothing by dressing up for you.”  
  
“Only because you know you already have my unconditional love.” Papa sighed and leaned down to kiss her cheek softly. “Well, as long I still get to be the one who undresses–”  
  
“It’s almost _her_ bedtime,” Mama interrupted him, her tone chilling. Papa hid a smile as he whirled around and took Nina into his arms.  
  
“All right, you heard your mama. We will be coming home late tonight, so be a good girl and listen to Constanzia.”  
  
She pouted, disappointed. “Can I wait up for you, Papa?”  
  
“Not if you want us to watch a movie together tomorrow, _principessa_.”  
  
“But… Papa, Mama looks _so_ beautiful. I don’t know when I can see her like this again.”  
  
“Well.” Papa was biting his lips, eyes gleaming mischievously at her. “You can always persuade Mama to dress up for your eighth birthday. It’s next month, isn't it? Not too far away.”  
  
“Really?” Nina turned toward her mother with her eyes wide, an effective weapon to get her way—as she had learned after so much practice on Uncle Romario. “Will you, Mama?”  
  
Her mother neither smiled nor frowned; only that sharp gaze remained pointedly on her father. “We’ll see.”  
  
“And can I wear a kimono too?”  
  
“Only if your mama wears one,” Papa answered before Mama could open her mouth, his expression serious. “Besides, you need someone to teach you how to wear it correctly.”  
  
Nina gazed at her again. “Please, Mama? Please?”   
  
“I’ll give the answer tomorrow. Now go to bed.”  
  
Nina squealed and wrapped her small arms around her mother’s neck, missing her father’s triumphant grin entirely.


	14. Sparks of the Stars

5.  
  
Edoardo was twenty-five when he assumed his role as a dutiful son and carried his mother’s weight on his shoulder. His sister bore the other corner of the casket, her lips set into a fierce line, her spine unbowed under the unfamiliar weight. His little brother, Cesare, stooped slightly behind her to accommodate his height, matching her steps with the same deference he had always shown his eldest.  
  
His father stood in stony silence before the wooden platform, watching the funeral procession’s slow progress. Vongola had sent their Sun and Rain to join the ranks of pallbearers, both as blank-faced as statues as they shared the burden. Behind them all, Kusakabe-san brought the rear, red-eyed and grief-torn.  
  
At the end of the war, they had won, their alliance triumphant against seemingly overwhelming odds. But even with his Mafia-oriented upbringing, his rough childhood as Hibari Kyouya’s son, Edo still considered this victory a loss. When he lowered the casket from his shoulder, the pricking ache easing into a dull throb, he wanted to shout and rage and spill blood for revenge.  
  
Except the men who had murdered his mother were dead. Like her.  
  
The sky did not weep, but it remained a shade of grey—the colour of her eyes. There were no more than twenty people present; even in death, his mother would not tolerate crowding, and Edo had to smile although she could no longer return the private gesture. They had always guarded their smiles closely, unlike his father and sister and brother, who were all suns in their own right. She had understood his silences, his need of them, best and shared his love for the unspoken. He drew a sharp intake of breath at the mist which had suddenly blurred his vision, but did not look away from her beautiful face.  
  
The ceremony began. A slow, monotone chanting filled the air, the dragging cadence and formless lilt both eerie and soothing to his inexperienced ears. He stood vigil at her side, knowing it would be his last. Nina had taken her place rightly at their father’s right, taking his hand in hers. He had his eyes closed, either lost in prayer or memory of the city they had first met. Edo had never seen a man loved a woman more; he could not imagine how it felt.  
  
After the prayer, everyone came forward to pay their respect. No one gave her anything, no flower, no trinket—she disliked those things, although would condescend to accept them from one person from time to time. Edo remained near the head of the casket until his father stepped up to kiss her cold, painted lips and whisper his last _‘ti amo’_ , his last of hundreds of thousands. The tears on his face were by now a familiar sight, once closely guarded by the image of a strong, affectionate father and powerful Don.  
  
The end came at last. Guided by duty and a written procedure stashed somewhere in his pockets, his numb hands reached up to lower the lid. Edo had to grit his teeth as another urge to scream swept over him at the sound, at the blackness of shadows which gradually swallowed her features.  
  
And then she was gone.  
  
  
–  
  
  
4.5  
  
“I should be the one going.”  
  
He heard the anxious note in his father’s voice and spared a sidelong glance from the expense report, just barely under dark eyelashes. The library was darkened with dusk, only the light from the hallway and a little lamp on his desk offered any sort of refuge. It was still enough for him to see the glint of her mother’s tonfa, steady within her grip.  
  
“You stay here and deal with the alliance,” she answered, clipped and clinical as her wont. “Sawada won’t be able to do it alone. Make sure it doesn’t crumble before I return.”  
  
“Kyouya–”  
  
“Are you doubting me?” She turned around, now facing him, icy with challenge. Edo suddenly wished that he was anywhere else but here to witness his parents’ quarrel, however unwittingly. Nina, sitting not far from him, obviously harboured the same wish.  
  
“My fear is utterly irrational,” his father said, his voice plaintive. “Love is irrational.”  
  
He had never ceased to be a romantic, even at his age. Edo rolled his eyes and exchanged looks with his sister, who was biting her lips to prevent a grin; she never succeeded.  
  
“You are never rational to begin with.”  
  
“In that case, I’ll make my first rational decision and go with you. Two is better than one.”  
  
“You know your place.”  
  
Her matter-of-fact tone cut deep. He could clearly see his father’s expression despite not looking at him. He guarded it loosely nowadays, among them, and she hated it. Self-discipline recognised neither time nor place, neither adversity nor friend. Edo knew it too well, had accepted the rule as a bible truth since he had been but a child looking up at his mother’s well-polished mask.  
  
When he grew up, he realised that it was mostly self-preservation. He had lost count at the number of times she had taken up the role of a sword for his father’s sake, planned or not. His mother’s excuse was always her recurrent desire to make people bleed; no one believed her, but she said it anyway.  
  
“Then promise me not to overexert yourself.” Clearly Father was still mired in doubt and conflicting unease. “You aren’t as young as you used to be.”  
  
There was a long pause as she looked at him, for once without reproach at his weakness. In the flood of light from the hall, she wore a pensive expression that suddenly made Edo’s heart ache. “So it matters to you, doesn’t it?” she spoke slowly, only a trace of accusation in the undercurrent.  
  
“How can you say that, Kyouya! You know that you have my undying love–”  
  
That was when she made her move and kissed him deeply, her fingers a claw on his back. Edo buried his face deeper into the stack of reports, determined to see and hear nothing. Surely she remembered that her son and daughter were in the room with them. Surely–  
  
“You’re also an old herbivore now,” she said at last, her voice the mirror of calm—as if she had not just kissed her husband senseless, and no, he definitely was not thinking that.  
  
“Your old herbivore,” he corrected her. Nina made a soft sound most unladylike that almost made Edo choke, but neither of their parents seemed to notice. “I love you, Kyouya. My wife, my heart, my soul.”  
  
Her smirk was slow, smooth, the edges matching every line on her face, and then she kissed her children goodbye. She did not kiss him again.  
  
Two months later, they heard the news.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
4.  
  
Edoardo was twenty-three when his sister was voted for the role of Underboss.  
  
There was little to decide on the matter. At twenty-five, Apollonina Cavallone already had all the qualities necessary for a future boss of the _Famiglia_. This post would give her a taste of what to come, particularly if the whispered rumours of a gathering power against their alliance were true.  
  
Edo saw his sister for what she was: a daughter desperately trying to fill the same footprints left by her father. That the Cavallone Decimo had successfully brought the Family back from the brink destruction had left them _enormous_ footprints to match. He read her anxiety in her efforts to be their father’s imitation in every way possible. She had already inherited his appearance, his trademark whip, his tattoos, and now she adopted his speech, his gestures, his way of thinking.  
  
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said to him one day. They were alone in the training ground, Cesare away at college and their parents at a business meeting. He read the tension in her shoulders and withdrew his tonfa.  
  
“Of course you can. You’re Father’s daughter through and through. And Mother’s too for that matter.”  
  
“I wish I can be more like her,” Nina murmured, her voice soft and rueful. “She can easily lead a Family alone.”  
  
“You won’t be alone,” he pointed out. The flash of hope flitting across her face made him ache.  
  
“You will stay?”  
  
“What sort of question is that?”  
  
“Edo.” She reached for his arm, her touch tentative, and held his gaze fiercely. “You will stay?”  
  
He noticed it too late; Edo cursed himself silently. Nina was rarely vulnerable, but she needed him at the moment, and he was too late. “Of course,” he said quickly. “In fact, if you wish to kick me out, you will find that you can’t.”  
  
Her smile was strained, designed to humour him instead of herself. “Bernardo is talking about retiring.” She played with the handle of her coiled whip, a nervous habit she had picked up from their father, “but if you don’t want to be the next _Consigliere_ , there is–”  
  
“Nina,” he cut in firmly, taking her hand in return, “I will stay.”  
  
She breathed in deeply and nodded.  
  
  
–  
  
  
3.5  
  
It was a widely accepted opinion in the Mafia circle: the Cavallone daughter had their parents’ charisma, the youngest son their good looks. The one in between were inferior in both regards, but he was the quietest, the hardest to read, and the _smartest_.  
  
For a very long time, Edo had resented his position. He wished to shine—as his siblings did, as his parents had done and continued to do over the years. Mother said that it was not important, but it _was_ , and all he could think was she did not know how it felt. She was an empress in her own world. She couldn’t possibly understand.  
  
He discovered his place on the day her sister almost died. A scathing insult, a jibe in return, a name-calling, and she got into a fight. Her long-time rival, the son of the Varia’s leader, was stronger than her, but she had speed and intent to kill. Edo arrived just in time and his effort to separate them was the only reason they still breathed.  
  
It was the first time Mother had ever struck Nina, a trail of her daughter’s blood staining her fingertips. He looked away, finding instead his father’s tight-lipped anger as a firm hand steered him out of the room. It was not until they were safe in the back terrace that Father turned to him and commended his judgment.  
  
“She could have been killed,” Edo said bluntly, locating the strength to be angry now that the wave of shock had passed. (A world without Nina was ridiculous, but it was not impossible.)  
  
“Yes, but that is your sister. Strong-willed, impulsive, proud, reckless. Your presence of mind saved her.”  
  
His father was not the most subtle of men. Edo could easily decipher the request he had yet to say, and felt a strange frisson of pride instead of the supposed bite of disappointment. He had known this for the longest time; Father simply confirmed it.  
  
“Nina is the only one who can lead the Family,” he said at last, swallowing the heaviness at the back of his throat, “but first, she will have to learn how to control her emotions.”  
  
The tight look on his father’s face softened. “Don’t you want to be a boss?” he asked, once more open, gentle.  
  
To his surprise, the answer came easily, as if his tongue had known it before his mind did. “No,” he said honestly; a cold wind responded to his answer, but the iciness only strengthened his resolve. “We are both Skies, but she is wider, brighter. I will be her shadow. By choice.”  
  
“I cannot think of anyone better to stand at her side,” Father admitted, looking at him in the eye.  
  
“Because there isn’t anyone better,” Edo replied firmly—and that, he realised, was the truth.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
3.  
  
Edoardo was seventeen when he realised that he could leave.  
  
By then, he had known more or less what a _Famiglia_ meant, what it was all about, the security and private schools and hushed conversations. Half of his father’s business was illegal and he had more enemies than Edo could be bothered to count. There were more guns hidden in the house than food and drinks combined, and he could shoot one and hit his target with barely a glance.  
  
And then there was the killing.  
  
But they could leave, as his father explained one evening. “I want you all to have a choice,” he said, and in the gloom of his office, he looked older than his forty-nine years. “Do what you wish to do. As long as you are happy, your mother and I will be very happy.”  
  
Nina would stay. _Cosa Nostra_ was in her flesh and blood and she could no more leave it than cutting the very air she breathed. Cesare was less sure, but when the time came, his decision would tear into any doubt like a storm, certain, intense.  
  
Edo had one foot in each world, the taste of both on his tongue—and still he did not know what to do with his life.  
  
  
–  
  
  
2.5.  
  
“It is wrong to kill.”  
  
His mother’s only reaction was a glance at his direction, no more. Cesare was only twelve, naïve and unsure enough to stop his light performance at the piano, but still far from understanding the magnitude of his brother’s question. From her corner, Nina shot him a surprised look which turned into resentment just as quickly. (For all their father’s inherited looks, she had their mother’s attitude to taking lives—it bothered her very little.)  
  
It was Father who looked at him, long and thoughtful. Then he heaved a deep sigh and said, “It is.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
2.  
  
Edoardo was eleven when the constraints of being in a Mafia Family began to choke him. There were strict hours and then there were bodyguards, following him everywhere he went: to school, to movies, to study groups. There were also the intensive martial art trainings, and although it was admittedly useful to defend himself against bigger boys in his school, Nina was always better than him. She had found her edge with a whip and their father’s smile when he watched her tore a jealous burn inside his heart.  
  
In the end, there was only so much an eleven-year-old boy could take—and tolerate. It was Mother who found him raging at his current guard, shouting words and curses he had only dared to think before. He saw her face darken and her hand when it curled around his wrist was unforgivable. She brought him to her training ground, an eerily silent place he had never stepped into before, and then put a pair of tonfa into his hands. The metal felt cold in his too-tight grips.  
  
“That,” she nodded at a human-shaped sack filled with straws. “Hit it with your anger.”  
  
Edo could only stare at it for a long time. His first strike, when it came, was uncertain, awkward. The balance of this weapon eluded him, but he made his second try, third, fourth.  
  
His mother’s eyes were on him and that was all the encouragement he needed.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
1.5  
  
“So we fell in love with each other when we met for the first time.”  
  
Nina giggled and Edo found himself glaring at the back of her head. Her golden ringlets moved as she shook her head in excitement at Father’s story. He supposed she was at that ridiculous age when all girls wanted to know more about love. Really, how could he do his homework if she kept giggling and snickering every few seconds?  
  
“I was twenty-two,” Father continued, smiling just as brightly. “Your mother was but a girl of fifteen—a very beautiful one, mind. Back then, Uncle Reborn asked me to help Uncle Tsuna and train her for the Vongola Ring Battle. Naturally I could not refuse, but I didn’t regret it. It was love at first sight.”  
  
“And the marriage, Papa?”  
  
“Your mother was twenty-three and had rejected my proposals way too many times because she was shy. So one day I got down to my knees–”  
  
“ _Did_ you?”  
  
His mother strode into the room, looking far from pleased, and Edo gave up all hopes to do any homework tonight.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
1.  
  
Edoardo was six when he recognised love for the first time in his life.  
  
He knew what love was, theoretically. His father’s open display of affection and frequent declarations of love were a part of their everyday life. His mother was more reserved, but it was simply her way. The warmth of their arms around his small body and the ball of happiness glowing inside him at the sight of their smiles were his abstract concept of love.  
  
It was a rainy day when he and Nina were whisked away from school and brought to a house where their mother and baby-brother were waiting. Her embrace felt different than usual and he wondered why but did not voice the question. Nina, for once, also knew better than to ask. They passed the day in the small house with crayons and printed pictures as men in black suits prowled the perimeter. His sister pouted and fidgeted, restless in the silence; Edo was simply glad that he had his Rubik’s cube with him.  
  
Mother stood by the window—sometimes with Cesare in her arms, or with her hand on the top of Edo’s head whenever he dared approach—and did not sit down until dinner. It was pasta and some salad; he was halfway through his fettuccini when Father came.  
  
Edo didn’t think he had ever seen his father looked so tired, so relieved and anxious at once. Mother—his calm, beautiful mother—was on her feet at once and the expression on her face nearly terrified him with its intensity.  
  
Father smiled at her seething anger, but his knees gave way before he could make his way toward them. She caught him, fluid, effortless, her voice a soft hiss.  
  
“You stupid herbivore.”  
  
In her arms, Father’s smile only widened, softened; it took a while for Edo to shake himself out of stupor and jump down from his chair to run toward him like his sister.  
  
That picture, that moment stayed with him throughout his life.  
  
  
 ** _End_**


End file.
